


haunt my heart down, boo

by maraudersourwolf



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Attempt at Humor, College Student Scott, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, Fluff and Humor, Ghost Isaac, Ghost Sex, Long-Distance Friendship, M/M, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Bromance, Swearing, They Try And Fail, haunted apartment, pop culture reference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-28 01:31:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14438598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maraudersourwolf/pseuds/maraudersourwolf
Summary: Ghost are real.His abuelita told him many time when he was a kid. And sure, he actually believed it. Who doesn’t believe their grandparents? On his eyes of a little 7 years old, his abuelita was a never ending source of knowledge that was in the world since the beginnings of time and not her roughly 60 years. If she said ghost were real, he better believe they were.As he grew up, it kinda lost its appeal too.Now, he wishes he believed her more.





	haunt my heart down, boo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wolfenboy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfenboy/gifts), [roseszain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseszain/gifts), [manonlemelon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/manonlemelon/gifts).



> **Prompt from writing-prompt-s**  
>  The ghost that’s been haunting your house for the last 5 years finally gets their shit together and stops breaking stuff to show you it’s upset. You just got out of the shower and find a written explanation on the mirror.
> 
> I took artistic licence and changed years into months.  
> And take the second part away.  
> Pretty much because I wanted to.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> To **Brett,**  
>  because you deserve softer times after the madness you lived.
> 
> To **Manon,**  
>  because happy belated birthday gift, you awesome little ghost! ♥
> 
> To **Theo,**  
>  because I promised a Scisaac forever ago and you did your best waiting for it.
> 
>    
>    
> Barely beta'd. Very messy.  
> This is a clusterfuck of mistakes, to be quite honest.  
> So if you find any, don't doubt to shout my way to change it.
> 
>  
> 
> I still think I'm funny so.  
> Hope you still enjoy it!

 

 

 

Ghost are real.

His abuelita told him many time when he was a kid. And sure, he actually believed it. Who doesn’t believe their grandparents? On his eyes of a little 7 years old, his abuelita was a never ending source of knowledge that was in the world since the beginnings of time and not her roughly 60 years. If she said ghost were real, he better believe they were.

He never got scared of them though.

Well, maybe a little at first, like any other kid growing up with ghost stories. But Abuelita had always stressed on the part that they were people stuck in this world for a reason bigger than themselves and that it was harder on them than on the living ones and Scott lose that fear rather quick.

As he grew up, it kinda lost its appeal too.

Movie horrors, hormones, girls, lacrosse. There were other things to think about and fill his time with.

Ghost turned up to be a story his old grandma decided to tell him so he wouldn’t get bored when his asthma kicked in or so he wouldn’t get scared when the old house creaked its old bones and his little mind couldn’t wrap around the strange but not quite noise.

Now, he wishes he believed her more.

Or at least that when he rented the apartment, the owner decided to share the part that it was terribly low in price because it was haunted.

Not that he wouldn’t have taken it. The life of a student dictates that the cheaper the better. And the apartment is not only cheap but also has quite the traits. It’s big enough to be comfy but not exaggerated, pretty close to the center of the city and there’s a mexican restaurant a couple of blocks away that does a terrific enchilada that’s not exactly like home but tampers down the nostalgia. There could have been a mass murdering inside those walls for all he cares. The apartment, not the mexican restaurant. Or maybe both. He can overlook a mass murdering for that enchilada.

The thing is that at least he would have walked into it knowingly.

Finding out that the apartment was already sort of occupied by a really passive-aggressive ghost that decided to cause mayhem out of the blue, well.

It’s not doing wonders with his budget.

 

*

 

Two glasses.

A mug of coffee, full.

Four plates.

His computer and phone getting drained when seconds ago where fully charged.

Who knows how many lightbulbs exploded.

Doors slamming shut out of the blue when the windows are closed.

And now turning off his X-box just before he saves.

Scott’s patience is running thin.

 

*

 

 _How to get unhaunted_ is not exactly a valid search on Google.

Basically, because Google tries to correct him into _how to get haunted_ and no, thank you. Who on his right mind would want to get haunted? For a moment he wonders if maybe this works like having a dog. If his ghostly roomie would be happier with a companion. But then again, maybe they don’t get along. Or maybe they would get along too well and he’d have to pay double for the things that got broken.

No more haunting.

Besides a book and rather unconventional blogs with weird information on them about the less haunted places or strange ways to shoo a ghost away, there’s nothing.

He found a song though. Sort of catchy.

Now it’s his new wake up ringtone.

 

*

 

Stiles helps him do some research about the apartment after ranting for 40 minutes about how he should have done that in first place and not just pray to not get his ass polstergaited. Scott assures him that he did research but mostly about how safe it was for real life threats, like a robbery or a murder, and how far it was from campus. The back and forth dies with a sharp ‘ _you should sort your priorities_ ’ and Scott isn’t sure if it’s aimed at him or Stiles said it to himself.

The thing is that Stiles’ magic researching skill are focused on the people who lived there. And died. That’s an important step for haunting a living space: being dead. Not that living people can’t haunt, but that’s mostly called breaking in.

If he’s going to share his apartment with a grumpy ghost, he better get to know who they are.

It turns out that it can either be Auntie Helga, a 80 years old feisty grandma that died from natural causes and got half eaten by her poodle, Manon, a young girl that died under strange circumstances of extremely increased heart rate for a 23 year old girl with her phone tightly clutched to her chest with nothing but fanfiction in it, or Isaac Lahey, the younger of the family that got beaten down by his own father and left to die inside of an industrial freezer at the freshly turned age of 21.

So far, Scott hadn’t found a clue as to who of them both could it be.

Stiles bets twenty bucks that it’s most likely Auntie Helga trying to cougar up her new ex-co captain of the lacrosse team and very much alive roommate.

Or ghost girl developing a crush on him. Stiles even has the nerve to tell him that he’s _such a lover boy, stealing hearts even from the depths of death_.

Scott tries to ignore him.

If he thinks in retrospective and rationally, the grumpy ghost would make more sense if it was a confused old woman with a college boy running wild inside her living space.

Even a really confused girl, acting out of instinct at the sudden presence of some random boy inside of what she thinks is still her apartment.

But the rational thoughts vanish soon after, Stiles voice nagging at the back of his head like a really annoying mosquito.

If there’s something worse than getting his ass pinched by Mrs. Jonas, the elderly lady living next door back home, is definitely having a horny poltergeist lusting over him.

Because at least with Mrs. Jonas, he could see it coming.

And how is he even supposed to deal with a ghost girl crushing on him? With the _It’s not you, it’s me, I’m alive_ speech?

Scott internally says his goodbyes to lazy days on underwear or walking around naked.

 

*

 

It breaks his heart a bit to know it’s not Manon.

 

*

 

It isn’t Auntie Helga either, thank god.

 

*

 

“Dude, what the fuck!,” Scott screams, “This is not cool! I had a system!”

He didn’t.

It was his copies and notes and books laying around the bed and the desk instead of on top of the desk, as they should be. Stiles’ comic books were mixed there. Maybe some bills too. But the ghost host can be kept out of the loop on that.

“Look bro, I get it, you get angry but this--,” he says, gesturing towards the chaos of notes and copies that go flying across the room and get thrown around haphazardly once he gives up into trying to catch them, “-- isn’t cool.”

There’s no answer, obviously.

Or there sort of is. The big book he just got from the library about brain diseases on dogs almost hitting the side of his head in the most ironic reply he ever got from someone besides Stiles.

Since the _first-but-actually-second_ encounter, where his mug of coffee flying out of his hand to crash violently into million little pieces of ceramic against the wall, it has been him talking to nothing but thin air because his roommate never actually showed up in front of him.

The first confrontation doesn’t really count because it was a glass with water, sliding across the table and just falling into the ground in the most petty way and Scott wants to give ghost boy the opportunity of be more of a badass than the ghost version of a cat. So to Stiles’ ears, the coffee mug is the first one.

The sudden _crash everything on my way that you’ll later have to clean_ they had going to a perfect degree is the only solid communication. And it’s getting tiring.

Scott from frowns and crosses his arms over his chest for a moment. A short one. The voice of his abuelita reminding him that life is for the living and the deaths just linger awkwardly on the unseen guilt trips him out of it too soon to be taken seriously.

With a deep sigh, Scott relaxes his whole demeanor and lets his arms fall back at the side of his body in the exact same moment the whole mayhem stops.

“I swear I try, but it’s hard to know what’s wrong,” he shrugs apologetically, his eyes sweeping around the room trying to find a remotely close to human like figure to lay on, “I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me”

Silence, again.

And no one to look at.

Scott is starting to think that maybe his brain isn’t functioning well after all, if he’s expecting a ghost to actually tell him what’s wrong.

With a new sigh, he resigns and starts to pick up the many sheets of paper now lying around.

It’s not like the ghost is going to fix it, that’s his part of the deal after all.

Maybe he can convince the ghost to do a trade.

 

*

 

He almost brains himself in the shower.

It’s not because he’s dancing and singing like a loon inside of it, doing _the one person show_ as his mom calls it. Or that he tried to run out of it because there was something in the stove or because his phone was ringing with an important call.

It’s because neatly written over the fog in the mirror, lays a detailed explanation to why the ghost - Isaac, he notices it’s signed at the end - is angry.

It basically starts with him still being there, when Isaac perfectly scared away other habitants. And making a rat nest of the whole place, which Scott’s a bit bitter about. It’s not like he has lots of time to clean, but fair. And Stiles being a pest calling 24/7 and doing ghost jokes. He doesn’t have neither an excuse or a solution for that one.

He would be offended if it wasn’t for the little aclaration, at the bottom of his mirror and almost too shy to see, saying that if he’s willing to try, Isaac will too. After all, he’s the first person that had tried to actually talk to him instead of setting an ouija board, trying an exorcism, or even banging pans around the house really loudly. There’s a small voice at the back of his head that tells Scott that he better delete his search history if he wants to make this truce last at least for more than just fifteen minutes and Scott is going to take its advice, thank you very much.

Scott smiles, crookedly and soft at the edges. He takes in every detail about the scrawny handwriting, like the words glueing to each other, some letters too small or too thin and how it makes it almost look more like an ancient language rather than perfect english. Who would have known that there’s actually someone with a worse handwriting than Coach Finstock. Someone who’s dead, but Coach would say that he’s pretty dead inside too so it’s not a uneven trait.

Passing a hand over it, Scott erases the proof of another close enough living person there. The mirror feels cold under his palm and damp by the steam, but somehow he can’t avoid to think it’s a bit warmer than it should be.

Or maybe he did actually brain himself and this is the last couple of seconds resembling a lucid state.

“Thanks, dude,” he says, out in the air, to no one in particular but his own reflection, “Will try my best, you’ll not regret it”.

He can only hope.

 

*

 

It ends up being their _thing_.

Like how with Stiles it was their _thing_ to eat junk food and play videogames. Or with Allison it was their _thing_ to watch the moon and listen to music.

The talking with the fog through the mirror is now his _thing_ with Isaac.

Stiles tells him that he’s insane. That you can’t have a _thing_ with a ghost besides being haunted. But Stiles also decided to go out on the woods to search for corpses most part of their teenage years, so he doesn’t really have much place to talk.

Besides, Scott likes it.

It feels less lonely, less empty. More like having someone around that actually cares and enjoys spending time with him. Even if they don’t really exactly talk but rather Scott monologues and Isaac leaves a commentary on the bathroom’s mirror. Either related to what Scott said or some random thing, like the insult of the day for Stiles.

He can’t stop himself from thinking that maybe Isaac enjoys it too.

And that probably his neighbour thinks he’s on drugs.

 

*

 

He crosses paths with his neighbour while going out of his apartment, but when he tries to greet her, Mrs. Hemings barely if looks at him before she slams the door closed.

There’s the distinct sound of the keylock being put in place too.

Yup.

She definitely thinks he’s on drugs.

 

*

 

_Mrs. Geil says that if you can drop the towel a bit slower next time you shower._

Scott wishes he was on drugs and that his very eyes hadn’t just read that in the bathroom mirror.

Auntie Helga is definitely stepping up her game.

 

*

 

He ends up buying way too many mirrors and placing them around the house for someone who barely checks themselves out before going out to live in the real world. Big, full body length mirrors that cost a bit too much of his budget to be a necessity.

Scott convinces himself that they will make the place more aesthetic, to make a nice change around. And that not having to go back and forth to the bathroom just to see if Isaac decided to write something is just an added bonus.

The fact that while he places them around, he’s overcomed by giddiness is dutifully ignored.

 

*

 

Mrs. Hemings see him load the unnatural amount of mirror he bought.

It doesn’t help the _I’m not on drugs_ cause.

 

*

 

“Scotty boy! How is my-- _woah_ , okay, yeah, I understand Mrs Hemings now”

Scott smiles bashfully and shrugs because what else can he do? Stiles is not really looking at him but at the glimpse of half a mirror and the light reflection from another one. When his whiskey brown eyes fall on him, it feels more like he’s looking at the delusion of his brain and not actually at the best friend he knows since they were four.

“Did I take it too far?”

“It looks like the perfect setup for either a really weird porno or a really twisted horror movie, but no, not at all, mi amigo”

Shifting his sight from the screen of his laptop to the room behind him, where two mirrors lay on the wall, Scott knows he went over the top a bit. But who can blame him? Not everyday you get a ghost to talk to you willingly.

“What do you have to talk so much about with him that you can’t say to me anyways?”

And to think that from both of them, people always said Stiles was the more observant.

 

*

 

“Good night, Isaac, see you-- **_fucking shit!_ ** ”

This time he does fall.

But from the bed.

It’s not a big leap, thankfully. But his back still does a ugly hollow sound and the back of his head bangs the floor nasty enough to make him feel dizzy for a second or two. Scrambling backwards out of bed most likely wasn’t the best survival instinct he ever had.

What’s hurt mostly is his pride after the shrill scream that left his mouth, resembling more a completely terrified little kid instead of a completely functional adult who most likely is going to get murdered.

When he looks around the dark room, sprawled on the floor with half leg dangling from the sheets and the other one half bent under his own weight, there’s no one around.

But he can swear he saw a blond boy smiling at the end of his bed.

 

*

 

“I’m telling you he’s real!”

“And I’m telling you again that this is probably some trick of your mind for moving far away, try to play the metropolitan version of a survival and leave me here for granted. Do you even know how to cook? Have you been eating like you should? Maybe it’s hallucinations because you’re not eating enough. Or food poisoning. Remember that time we tried to play surviving in the woods and we ate flowers because you assured me that those pretty purple flowers were edible and they ended up being wolfsbane?”

Scott rolls his eyes at the screen and scowls, watching Stiles cross his arms while arching a brow at him. His best friend chews on the string of his hoodie with academy award levels of disdain.

Silence stretches.

Seems like it’s a battle of wills then.

Scott is not backing down on this but Stiles seems to be caving little by little, if the way his shoulders slump down softly and the chewing turning more into just keeping the string on his mouth means something. Whiskey brown eyes squint at him, lips pursing forcibly.

Five seconds tops.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

“Ugh, okay!,” Stiles scream, throwing his hands up in the air. Scott does nothing but relax, but he knows that Stiles knows that he’s feeling very pleased with his fairly winned new point on their invisible match of wills. “I believe you, is that what you wanted to hear?”

This time he does smile, wide and crooked with an extra side dish of dimples. The full happy puppy look that Stiles despises and loves with his whole being. As if in cue, his best friend groans but Scott doesn’t miss the small upward quirk at the corners of his lips.

“Yeah yeah, enjoy your victory while you can”

Scott is not so sure how much of a victory is to have your best friend acknowledging that the ghost haunting the apartment did an Edward Cullen impersonation on him last night, but he will take what he can.

 

*

 

By the end of the week, Scott is sure that he’s not hallucinating, like Stiles suggested, and that in fact a tall blond boy pops in and out of his sight like someone would switch on and off the light.

The only consolation to his predicament is that Isaac seems equal or more surprised than him by this development.

Scott secretly wants to stop seeing wide blue eyes filled with bewilderment and instead see a wide soft smile, just like the first time.

 

*

 

Scott starts dreaming with Isaac.

At first is complete nonsense. Isaac is in the background of whatever surreal concoction Scott’s unconscious brain is playing. And since he’s in finals week, there’s a lot of weird things mixing together there. He recognizes the boy but not really and his brain lets it go as another face in the crowd while instead focusing on talking trees with Stiles’ voice or a dog dressed as a clown running like a one of those lizards that can run over water and screams random facts from the top of its lungs like how pill bugs have blue blood or that butterflies can taste their feet.

The brain of a vet student on its prime, clearly.

But Isaac lingers at the periphery of his gaze.

Unmoving.

Probably disturbed by the things his stressed brain can fuse and inflict on him.

Scott gets used to him there, convinced that’s most likely his brain trying to catch up with the glimpses of on/off reality Isaac has and the many monologues with written mirrors.

And then it happens.

He’s having the same nightmare that torments him since he’s fifteen. The dark woods surrounding him. The silence. Shallow breath that doesn’t really reach his lungs and burns his throat. Half a body, lifeless eyes looking back at him and sprawled arms that seem like crawling towards where he’s standing. A howl, fierce and cold that just promises death.

And he’s running, trying to outdo a player in its own game.

Scott doesn’t know why he does it because he never wins, fangs crushing his windpipe before he can even exhale a last breath or try to scream.

This time is different.

He sees the glint of fangs and red eyes burning through the night like embers getting dangerously closer, pinning him in place. Scrunching his eyes closed, Scott waits for the bite and the pain and the death. For the fear to take over.

But it never comes.

Instead, there’s a warmth engulfing him that falls far from blood and leans more into something careful, nurturing. Like how he would pick up a scared puppy. Like how his mother used to cradle him close when asthma attacked.

When he opens his eyes, Isaac is hugging him close, breath softly washing over his forehead and the steady beat of a heart that’s not his ringing on his ears. Long fingers carde through his hair in a soothing way that he doesn’t remember outside family. Memories of long afternoons with his abuelita under the sun flooding his mind.

The woods are gone. The killer wolf and the maimed body too. His breath is back and the fear seeps out of his bones as if it hadn’t been there to begin with.

There’s silence.

“It’s okay,” Isaac mumbles, “You’re not alone”

And that’s when he wakes up.

 

*

 

Scott doesn’t go back to sleep.

There’s a warmth still lingering in the corners of his body that he can’t nor want to shake off.

 

*

 

“So you dreamed with him”

“Yeah,” Scott’s soft demeanor changes into a confused frown and he tilts his head to a side. Stiles tries to hide the teasing smile behind the pixels on the screen, but it’s futile. “No. I didn’t _dream_ with him. He was always there. And then last night--”

“Last night?,” Stiles seems to perk up at the uneasiness on Scott’s voice.

“I was having a nightmare”

“A nightmare?”

“ _The nightmare_ ”

“Oh”

Scott sees Stiles do the same thing as everytime _the nightmare_ is brought up.

He squirms in place, hunching over himself in guilt, trying to make his long and lanky body look as small as possible. He also chews on the inside of his cheek, probably until making it bleed to feel like he pays for his sins. Scott doesn’t understand, because he never truly blamed Stiles for what happened that night, but there’s no amount of reassurance that actually works.

Doesn’t matter how many times they talked about this, Stiles seems as restless as the exact day when the nightmare started. Or when he catches a glimpse of the terrible scar that sharp fangs and a feral need to kill left on Scott’s side.

“He was there,” Scott finishes, interrupting Stiles train of thought, who looks up and frowns.

“There? What do you mean with _he was there_? Like was he the corpse? Or the wolf?”

Scott shakes his head and waits for the frozen screen to catch it. “He was there, dude. The wolf, the girl, the woods were gone and he was there. Hugging me.”

He knows he looks fidgety enough to seem like he’s doing his best Stiles’ impersonation and that there’s a blush creeping its way up his face that have nothing to do with this being the first time in his life that Scott breaks out if the terrible loop of that nightmare and more with the physical contact that he shared with Isaac.

Stiles seems far too silent and way too unmoving for the restlessness that’s usual but before Scott takes the out and hangs out, he lets himself fall on the chair, does a nonchalant hum followed by a surprised grimace and keeps looking.

Scott knows that look.

That’s Stiles’ look of _I can see right through your bones_.

“What?”

It sounds too defensive and it’s a bit stupid because he _knows_ what. He just don’t want to confirm that yes, the thing that Stiles is thinking is exactly the thing that Scott thought too and that’s happening.

“Nothing. Just, y’know,” Stiles shrugs and Scott doesn’t miss the tic on his left eyebrow, the glint of unabashed curiosity on his eyes or the sort of amused but not quite quirk of his mouth, “I’m starting to think that next week you’ll skype me and tell me that you are having a crush on your haunt buddy”

Stiles snorts, but it sounds calculated.

Scott chuckles, but it sounds hysteric.

Maybe he’s a little bit late to make that call now.

 

*

 

Dreams with him get frequent but Isaac is no longer a background figure following the The Police’s song like a manual.

Now he’s right there, next to him.

With his blue eyes and his golden hair, his half foot taller and broad shoulders. The hands with long fingers twisting into one another just to fall into his pockets and hunch on himself to look smaller, more vulnerable. The echoing laugh and the wide open smile paired with a bright and delighted gaze that reminds Scott too much of the puppies he takes care of at the clinic where he does his internship.

It’s as if Isaac had been dutifully waiting for him to pop into unconsciousness, just to bump shoulder freely or even the back of their hands if they feel frisky. And it warms something inside his chest that expands to every nerve end, because Scott knows now. He knows and understands and it shouldn’t happen because Isaac is a ghost and he’s a living human and this isn’t his mom’s favorite movie.

But it happens.

And Scott is oh so weak.

“Do you miss being alive?”

As soon as the question leaves his mouth, Scott winces and a chorus of _what the fuck_ and _good one Scotty boy_ play on loop inside his head. It’s no surprise at all that both of them have Stiles’ voice to give them character.

The never asked question.

Mainly because he guessed that if you are a ghost haunting a place, you get to miss being alive at some point. Haunting can be entertaining for a certain amount of time but it must get boring at some point. There’s also the thing with trying to not hurt Isaac’s sensibilities by bringing back a past that better lays buried very deep, but his brain seems to decide that they can freely stomp over them and crush them into pieces.

The only excuse is that he needs to know because he’s helpless, even more than Stiles with the whole Lydia thing and the ten year plan, and he wants to do _something_ about it. He doesn’t know what yet or if there’s even something he can do, but that never stopped him before and it’s certainly not doing it now.

“I don’t really remember it”

Scott nods as only response and keeps silent, because there's not enough words to say how relieved he feels at that fact.

Isaac’s voice is different from what he pictured from reading the rough handwriting on the mirrors. It’s been so long since that that he can barely remember how was the voice he made up in his head at the beginning. Too high pitched, maybe. Or maybe too squeaky, like monsters on kids shows. He’s guilty of at least once or twice imagining the whole dragging vocals sort of thing, a sin he already paid when chuckling out loud and getting a taste of the first haunting days back.

But Isaac’s voice is anything like that. It’s deep enough to sound like a rumble. Slow and careful with each word, trying to pronounce them correctly. Sometimes it even sounds like he has an english accent going on.

Now, Scott can’t imagine any other timbre of voice besides this one, soothing and careful, washing over him and turning his brain off.

“What would you do if you got to be alive again?”

But for a bad turn, it seems.

Isaac shrugs and Scott duells that maybe he’s asking too much, digging too deep. Maybe, pfft. _Maybe_ is a word for banal day to day things. Like _maybe I’ll eat a hotdog_ or _maybe I’ll go to sleep early_ . It’s for uncertainty. And there’s none of that here. He _is_ asking too much and he _is_ digging too deep because it seems that now that he _knows_ , he has no connection between mouth and brain when Isaac’s around.

But the other boy seems unfazed, still looking at him like if the whole dream surrounding them isn’t there to begin with and Scott isn’t doing a clown out of himself. And maybe it isn’t. Who knows. Not Scott. Because his eyes are now glued to the other boy as well, who just looks in silence.

Then there’s that cocky quirk at the corner of his mouth that’s all false pretense and has vulnerability written all across it.

“I’d like to spend it like this, with you”

Scott doesn’t think twice before crashing his mouth over Isaac’s.

 

*

 

He wakes up suddenly.

It’s still night time.

And he just kissed Isaac.

There’s a lingering tingle on his lips that can’t be anything else besides a trick of his sort of sleep deprived mind, but he still touches tentatively over it to see if there’s any sort of warmth too.

It’s not that he’s having a sexuality crisis. He had that one long before, when Stiles convinced him that the best way to get experience at kissing would be to practice. Together. It had been a very gross and disturbed one time thing that they decided to let die and swore to never bring back again from the darkest corners of their minds.

There was Allison, for a big chunk of his teenage days, and their modern version of Romeo and Juliet. But then Jackson kissed him stupid one time after a harsh lacrosse practice. And there was Danny at Jungle. More than once. And at prom.

Scott is totally in peace with his sexuality.

What he isn’t at peace with is the focus of his infatuation.

Rubbing his hands over his face roughly, cleaning sleep away, he takes his phone and winces at the sharp sting of light across his eyes. Nothing like maiming yourself to wake up. Blindly touching the settings until the brightness dims a bit, he clicks on the Skype icon and waits.

He’s not sure why he does it. Stiles isn’t really going to give him a solution. He’s most likely going to judge his life choices, because it’s 3 am in the morning of a thursday, he has classes tomorrow and a shift at work to top it. But before he can hand up, Stiles replies. He seems even fresher than that afternoon when they video called and Scott suddenly feels the fatherly impulse of wanting to know how many coffees and redbulls did Stiles take or interrogate him about his ADHD medicine side effects.

“Yo Scotty boy, why are you up so late? Or early? This is confusing, are you just going to sleep or waking up?”

“Waking up,” Scott croaks and winces at his own voice, “Had a dream”

“A dream? Not--?”

“A dream,” Scott confirms.

“And I guess that our friendly roommate Casper was there?”

Scott nods, doubts for a second and nods again before replying. “Kissed him,” it comes out like a soft exhalation between the shy smile that plays on his lips and he knows he should feel dumb but instead feels blessed.

“You kissed him? Isaac? The ghost that’s been passive-aggressively shutting off your X-Box and writing on mirrors? The one that now plays peek-a-boo?”

“Yeah,” Scott’s smile grows a couple of inches at the same time that Stiles’ frown.

“When I told you last week about the crush call, I was actually joking”

Scott rolls his eyes and decides to ignore the comment. Stiles sound sarcastic, but not his unkind brand of it. More like amused. And curious. Maybe a bit confused too. “I woke up when I did”

“You kissed him and woke up. Am I the only one seeing common sense trying to talk to you?,” Scott huffs as only response and Stiles snorts. “Look dude, I get it. You’re alone there, the place is haunted. Or not. Who knows. But you can’t keep this going because obviously there’s no one there and-- **_HOLY SHIT WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK_ ** ”

The scream coming out of the screen is so strident that it makes Scott flails around with his phone for a second. Stiles startles hard enough in his wheely chair to make it tumble backwards and fall with a loud thud and it’s almost enough to distract Scott but not enough to not see the figure popping into reality and out of it soon after.

The call goes silent besides from Stiles’ harsh breathing. Scott can still see his best friend’s sneakers twitching, so he guesses that his best friend didn't brain himself and he’s free to make an informative call to the Sheriff about how he killed his only son by getting a crush on the ghost who haunts his apartment.

“Was that Isaac?,” the question is more like a squawk that Scott takes a couple of seconds to decipher. Years of experience seem to never be enough.

“Yeah,” Scott shrugs, turning to see if Isaac is still there, but there’s nothing more than the dimly lit room and his own shadow, “He doesn’t like when you, uh, do that”.

 _Doing that_ is a bit of a stretch. Isaac actually doesn’t like most of the things that involve Stiles, the same way that Stiles fiercely dislike everything that involves Isaac. But _doing that_ falls perfectly into the safe spot of vagueness where Scott can live peacefully.

“Okay, I take it back,” comes Stiles’ voice muffled by the height, “It’s not your head doing tricks. You need to call the ghost busters right the fuck now--”

Before Scott gets to reply, his phone turns off.

He can swear there’s a lingering feeling of fingers over his own.

There’s a strange sense of satisfaction but that part he’s going to keep it to himself.

 

*

 

It’s not their last kiss.

 

*

 

It’s not Stiles’ last scare either.

 

*

 

Now in his dreams, there’s a girl in the background watching them intently and smiling widely every time they kiss, with what Scott would describe as Stiles’ eyes of _this is going to be my new obsession for the next couple of centuries._

Isaac says to not mind her, that’s just Manon.

Now the phone thingy makes more sense.

 

*

 

Isaac gets more present.

Not like _talking to you all the time_ kind of present, because that he already did. Sure, maybe writing on a mirror is not actually talking. And doing it on dreams isn’t either. But it’s something close to the real deal, so it sort of counts.

Now it’s more like the _I’m not popping in and out of reality so much, mostly just popping in and staying for a while_ kind of way.

And they talk.

For real, not just inside the figurative four walls of a dream.

Isaac’s voice filling the empty hollowness of the apartment they live in, answering to whatever nonsense Scott says or laughing. If Scott’s lucky enough, even singing. It has almost an instant calming effect to his stressed college self but not so much to his crushing soft heart.

There’s also the bonus point of Mrs. Hemings finally hearing that there is an Isaac that replies back to Scott’s madness and forgetting about the whole doing drugs thing.  

Scott enjoys it too much.

The _having Isaac around like a normal person should_ thing, not the _you don’t need to call the police on me yet Mrs. Hemings_ part.

Who’s he kidding, he enjoys both.

He just hates that they still can’t touch.

 

*

 

“And how am I supposed to help?”

“I don’t know, dude! You’re the one with the researching skills! The magic fingers, the internet guru, the Yoda to my Anakin, the Miyagi to my karate kid and--”

“Okay okay, stop the flattery,” Scott smiles widely at the sight of a pleased smirk on Stiles mouth, even if soon after his best friend clears his throat and tries to go for a _never happened_ face. Because it means he’s winning. “I know you think I have some sort of magical power, a spark inside of me that has all the answers, but you’re forgetting a key point”

Maybe he still needs a bit more flattery.

“What key point?”

“The key point that Isaac is more like Leia’s hologram and-- **_JESUS FUCK CAN YOU STOP DOING THAT_ ** ”

Isaac’s leaning over his shoulder as if he belonged there to begin with, in a complete relaxed demeanor, watching at the screen and looking far too pleased with almost giving Stiles a heart attack. For who knows how many times this week alone. Scott huffs and turns to look at him, arching a brow. Isaac imitates him and it doesn’t take too long until Scott can’t stop the goofy smile from sprouting on his face.

“God, you both are disgusting”

Stiles voice breaks the spell and when Scott turns back to the screen, his best friend is making a grimace of disgust and turning his gaze away. This time the goofy smile is aimed at Stiles because he’s sure that’s what he lacked a couple of minutes ago. That and his puppy eyes.

Before he can even attempt to make them, Stiles covers his eyes and groans.

“Not the puppy eyes, Scotty,” peeping through his finger he gets a glimpse of the puppy eyes still going full swing and he groans, “I shouldn’t feel proud of how much of a manipulative little shit you are. Okay, yeah, I’m convinced. I’ll help.”

“Dude!,” Scott beams, “Really? I don't even know how to--”

“Save the thanks for when I actually find something”

“You are going to find something”

“You seem too sure”

“If anyone can do it, it’s you, bro”

There’s the pleased smirk again and this time Scott knows he has him. Unapologetically wrapped around his finger. Isaac snorts at his side and Stiles shakes himself out of the bro-zone to glare at the blond boy.

“Let it be known that I’m doing this for you and not for goldy locks on testosterone over there”

Scott nods energetically, ignoring the high pitched mimic of his best friend that Isaac does off camera. Stiles waves aimlessly ahead, more like scaring away a fly than actually saying bye. Or probably trying to swat at Isaac with the power of the force before the call ends.

“What is he going to do?”

Scott startles on his wheely chair, which does a really mean warning groan that can be roughly translated into _do that again and next thing you’re meeting is the floor_ , and turns around to look at Isaac. He’s sure that years of lying to his mom and the Sheriff should have teached him something.

“It’s a surprise”

He’s lying to is no one but himself. Stiles was the one with the bending the truth skills, Scott is not even sure what his skills are at this point. He doesn’t sound convinced. At all. But he smiles wide and pretty. Maybe he can play dumb. Maybe he can trick Isaac like he tricks Stiles.

Isaac arches a brow, letting him know that he’s failing at that too, but doesn’t say a word.

And Scott counts it as a win.

 

*

 

Week 1 goes with no progress whatsoever.

Too many links about special effects, shady blogs with not enough information.

Or not the information they are trying to find.

He swears that the amount of people trying to fuck ghosts is alarming. Auntie Helga would have been proud.

The deep web is a scary place and Scott wishes Stiles didn’t share the more gruesome details of his research, but then again they always overshared and this is not going to break the rule.

It doesn’t stop him from wishing it would.

 

*

 

Scott falls into temptation.

After screaming around the apartment for Isaac and finding no reply whatsoever, he decides that it’s pretty much safe of both judgy eyes and questions he’s not really ready to answer. So he sits on his wheely chair, check twice over each shoulder. A third time. And does his own research.

About _spectrophilia_.

The name is pretty self explanatory.

And Scott is surprised to find that there’s interviews, videos with first-hand experiences. There’s even a site with a step by step guide of how to bang your ghost. Or let them bang you. The semantics are a bit blurry there.

To say he gets engrossed is an understatement.

At some point he’s no longer in his desk but on his bed, computer on his lap and eyes glued to the screen. Scott never thought it would come the day he would have one of Stiles’ researching episodes, but here he is. Defying all the odds.

Site after site.

Click after click.

The sound of an incoming skype call breaks the absolute silence of the room and startles him so much that he almost makes his laptop get into plane mode and literally fly away from him.

Stiles name flashes on the screen and he feels suddenly judged, as if his best friend would have the superpower to read his mind and do the Disapproving Sheriff Look™ he’s been practicing for exact moments like this.

Before taking the call, he decides to close all his tabs and save himself the mortification.

 

*

 

He has 10 new tabs saved on favorites now.

 

*

 

“Do you feel anything?”

Isaac’s voice is a sultry whisper that drifts from somewhere in the room and washes over every nerve of his body, soothing it. Scott eyes are closed, breathing even and the lights of the room are dim thanks to the scented candles he brought because they were on sale.

And because they were a step on the fucking list he found that was impossible to shake off his head.

“Not yet,” Scott whispers.

His head is feeling kind of dizzy at this point and it feels like a huge step into the direction of the ghost dicking really happening. Or maybe it’s the fact that he hadn’t stopped taking deep breaths since the beginning and his brain decided that it’s far more oxygenized than usual.

Or maybe it’s the image of Isaac, burned in the back of his eyelids and far too perfect in his head to be just an excerpt of his imagination making wonders to his libido.

Who knows.

He always had a vivid imagination, but people usually don’t notice it because of Stiles.

There was that time when he was 6 and dressed up as Superman just because Stiles dressed up as Batman and he didn’t want to be Robin. His mom kept telling him to not jump down the tree, because he couldn’t really fly but he was pretty sure he could and--

Okay, no.

Not thinking about Stiles now.

Nor his mom.

Or his whole childhood.

Isaac.

That’s where his mind should be going.

To the pretty blue eyes and the pretty pink mouth. Those cheekbones, ready to be kissed and licked and nipped. His strong shoulders, broad back, and the half foot taller that doesn’t sound so bad right about now. He could perfectly climb Isaac. And Isaac could perfectly hold him up with his long limbs. God, specially those long fingers. His mouth, kissing and biting and--

 _“Come to me, loving spirits_ ,” Scott chants, feeling a overwhelmed by the heat pooling on his face and down his belly. Also by the small sprinkle of shame.

Because of the chanting.

Not the very lustful images his brain is conjuring for his amusement.

Those are totally fine and he’s on board with them.

“ _Come to_ **_me_ ** _, loving spirits_ ,” he repeats, this time more sure of himself. There’s a soft snort somewhere in the room and all the bravado is starting to seep off Scott’s spirit.

He still tries, because _believing_ was a big bolded, underlined and highlighted step on the list.

And Scott is a believer by nature.

Years of following Stiles’ plans have told him so.

If someone gets to have this, it should be him.

Minutes go with him chanting in a very faint whisper until he’s not sure if he’s actually pronouncing the words or just making really undignified mumbling noises that make him look more like someone getting possessed, the scent of the candles making his nose itch and the feeling of being in a really bad porno increasing with each new breath.

“Do you feel anything now?,” Isaac asks again, but this time his voice is full of amusement and he doesn’t even try to hide it.

Scott mentally surveys each sensation.

His body is sore, for being in the same unmoving position for who knows how long.

His feet, chest and arms are freezing cold because he decided to jump part of the undressing.

His stomach is growling, possibly for the lack of food since that morning.

And he’s getting sleepy.

No sexy feelings whatsoever.

“No,” he replies, both crestfallen and frustrated, finally opening his eyes and looking at the ghost in his room.

“Good,” Isaac replies easily, “Because this _loving spirit_ have been trying to tickle you the whole time”

Good thing is that Isaac is always up for a good laugh.

 

*

 

There’s the silent agreement that by no means Stiles will get the memo of that fiasco.

 

*

 

His throat is sore.

No more chanting unless he has to summon a demon for college purposes.

 

*

 

Week 2 goes with a sort of progress.

Mostly Stiles reviewing all the ghost movies he can find and coming up with a new tray of freshly baked ghost puns that are terrible enough to get _boo_ -ed away.

Get it? _Boo_.

Like the ghosts?

Isaac isn’t amused either.

 

*

 

“Hey, Isaac,” Stiles voice comes from the screen, addressing the ghostly roommate in a way too cheery way from the usual disdain and annoyance.

Isaac barely if crooks a brow at the screen, hoovering at Scott’s side like a really pretty and almost see through decoration, while the living boy is sprawled in bed with a book over his face because finals.

“What was your favorite food when you were alive?”

Scott eyes widen under the book, that gets thrown away in his haste to get out of the bed and back to the desk, ready to cut the call before another bad ghost pun sends the metaphorical peace flying out of the window.

“Was it _boo_ -rritos?”

The computer turns off almost at the same second Scott presses over the hang up button and silence reigns inside the room. Isaac’s voice, deep and unapologetic, is the only thing that breaks through it.

“I’m not sorry”

Scott can’t even blame him for that.

 

*

 

By the 20th pun, Isaac snaps.

Scott’s computer sizzles and shuts down, letting the boy gaping down at the small bolts of energy jumping from the keyboard and the dark screen that seconds ago was a flash of glitched colors.

He just hopes it’s just drained, like many other times Isaac got angry or frustrated. That charging it would be the magical solution he needs. But when he turns to look at Isaac and ask, the boy is gone. Popped out of existence, like a coward.

Scott looks back at his computer and swears under his breath.

Stiles thinks his ass will be kicked from grave and beyond. Little does he know that if his computer is really dead, Scott will kick his ass sooner.

 

*

 

Ghost puns are banned until further notice.

 

*

 

Week 3 goes with Scott growing restless.

He’s been trying and failing to keep himself in check, asking Isaac way too many things related to being actually a living person and not a ghost to not raise suspicion of any kind. Like _what would you do if you could go out on a sunny day? If you could, would you pet every dog crossing your path? What food would you eat first if you were properly human again?_

At this point, he’s sure Isaac may know something.

But he’s either too scared or too nice to ask.

 

*

 

“Aren’t you curious about why I keep asking things like that out of the blue?”

Isaac shrugs, strutting around the apartment as if it was a very important task to do and not a repetitive impulse because he’s bored and can’t do anything more than just move.

“Being friends with Stiles is enough of an answer”

Touché.

 

*

 

By week 4, Stiles seems to lose the trail of whatever clue he was following and fall into an extensive research of supernatural lore in general. On his words, _if I can’t find it, maybe I can deduct it with my junior FBI skills, dude._ Scott doesn’t really want to reply to that.

There was a grimoire online of a coven Stiles can barely read the name let alone pronounce it, that seems to be filled with all kind of information to paper levels of complete. With conclusions and all. He’s not sure how real something like that can be, but Stiles trusts it and who is he to doubt it.

The only problem seems to be that the extract with afterlife and ghosts it’s not only lacking information. It’s almost non-existent.

Same as Scott’s optimism at this point.

 

*

 

There is no hope whatsoever by week 5.

Stiles is exhausted.

Scott is exhausted.

And Isaac is a ghost, so he doesn’t really get exhausted but still shares the sentiment.

That’s all that counts.

 

*

 

Week 6.

This one.

This is the winner.

 

*

 

 **Received 13:08** I found something

 **Received 13:08** Are you still keeping it secret for the sake of not breaking his ghostly sensibilities in case it doesn’t work?

 **Received 13:09** Or can I break the news that I’ll be able to punch his stupid face soon?

 **Received 13:09** Think of it as my payment

 **Sent 13:15** It’s still a secret

 **Sent 13:15** And I’m telling him

 **Received 13:15** Please don’t take that away from me

 **Received 13:16** Why are you wounding me like this

 **Received 13:16** What did I ever do to you

 **Received 13:16** Don’t answer that question

 **Sent 13:20** Thank you, dude

 **Sent 13:20** For real.

 **Received 13:22** You’re so lucky that I love you like a brother

 

*

 

The lore about ghost, as it is, isn’t so far away from fairy tales.

Unsurprisingly, Stiles is a tad bit too much annoyed by the fact that they missed so much time, got mentally scarred for life by things they saw that should be unseen and for what? For something had been under their nose all the time but none of these supernatural snobs decided to leave a clue or a memo saying _hey, you should check this instead of surfing back and forth on the internet for literally nothing_.

Stiles’s words, not his.

Though Scott shares the sentiment completely.

The good thing is that it’s not exactly the kiss of your other half to make you stop being ethereal once and for all bullshit. It's close enough, but not quite. He’s sure that if Stiles found that the solution to a problem he didn’t even want to resolve to begin with was for Scott to play the Disney princess part, he would have flipped his shit.

Not that he’s not flipping his shit right now.

A true connection between someone alive and someone from the realm of the death. That’s what would eventually break out the very deadness of someone and bring them back to the realm of sunburns, undignified possible deaths and spiders crawling your body. It can be a mother, a sister, a brother, a guy who moved into the apartment you used to haunt. Everyone, as long as the friendly ghost feels connected to them.

Like a plug in, Stiles said.

Scott tries really hard to not find it logical.

The usually tricky part, by the internet definition, is that both of them need to acknowledge that one party is very much dead. Which they have already covered. With special extra help of Stiles, who smiled proudly at him through the screen. As if he was figuratively being patted on the back instead of mentally punched on the face.

There’s also a thing with the having flowing interactions between them both, like talking and touching. Probably kissing too. It’s not exactly stated, but Scott preens because of it. There had been a lot of kissing in his dreams lately, surely it’s a whole lot better than just talking and touching, right?.

“That’s--”

“Anticlimactic, I know,” Stiles huffs and rolls his eyes, slumping back into his wheely chair, “I was expecting something more like exchanging years of your life for his so I’d have been able to force you to forget this whole thing”

Scott snorts. Both because even if Stiles is grimacing, it’s the fond version of it, so he’s not being exactly truthful. And because it’s actually adorable how Stiles says it like there would have been a smidge of a chance of Scott letting this go, when both of them know that’s so far from reality that it could have been an alternative universe thing all together.

They both share a look that doesn’t exactly say anything but tries to prompt the other into talking. Or more like Scott is trying to make Stiles talk and Stiles is just arching his brows back in a sort of _I did my job already, what else do you expect from me_.

An answer, that’s what Scott expects.

“Then for it to work…?”

“Oh, yeah, _that_ ,” Stiles mumbles derisively, swatting at the air in front of him, as if the whole idea is having to explain it hadn’t even been on his plans, “Just keep doing what you have going and-- **_HAVE I TOLD YOU WHAT AN ASSHOLE YOU ARE_ ** ”

Scott would feel startled or wounded if it wasn’t for the sound of Isaac sniggers behind him, signaling that he clearly scare jumped into screen just to try to kill Stiles once and for all from a premature heart attack.

Scott can feel the hairs of his crown move a bit with each new giggle from the blond boy, as if Isaac is actually breathing out real air onto him. Because he is. It is real air moving his hair. And Stiles must see it too, because the scowl he was sporting is no longer there and the snark remark never comes. There’s just his brown eyes wide open, looking at them both and gaping, the same way Scott is doing.

It feels like a strange conversation going in a forgotten fish dialect and probably Isaac thinks the same, because his laugh gets a bit louder and higher. But instead of sounding hysteric, it sounds almost angelical.

Or maybe is the strange halo of light surrounding the tall boy, that Scott sees very detailed on the small screen that’s supposed to be his own.

The faint fuzziness around Isaac turns sharper, more attune with reality, while the shine of warmth light around the boy’s skin turns almost blinding. Enough to make Isaac’s features, who’s still somehow laughing instead of going into a state of panic. Or maybe that’s why he’s laughing.

Stiles perks up on his chair at the other side of the screen and Scott finally tears his gaze away from the screen and turns around just when the ethereal glow starts to dim and the furniture around the apartment can’t be seen across the blond boy.

“Bro, I’ll call you back!”

“What!? No, Scott, wait--”

The video call ends abruptly by Scott smashing his hand down to close the lid of his laptop. He tries to get up quickly and his wheely chair forgets the basic functioning it should do, like roll and turn, and instead almost sends him flying towards the floor. It may have something to do with the fact that he’s too excited too. But it’s mostly the chair’s fault.

Isaac laugh gets even more higher for a second, enough to be worrisome by the lack of air he isn’t getting on his lungs, and with the most anticlimactic sound, like someone popping a very deflated balloon, reality welcomes him.

Just like that.

Scott blinks at him, stunned into silence at the sight of the boy he has been pining for almost a year there. Right in front of his desk, in his room. And very real. Skin and bones and all that jazz. With his face flushed and a dying chuckle on his lips. Blue eyes popping over the redness of Isaac’s cheeks and locked on him, there, almost sprawled on the floor, in the more Stiles’ like pose he could ever muster to avoid kissing the floor fiercely.

Time must have passed because when Scott blinks out of the awed dimension, Isaac is smiling bashfully and shifting under his gaze in somewhat closer to shyness. Also his muscles are burning and quivering from keeping him steady way too long for their amusement.

He needs to step up his leg day.

And talk, because he’ll give Isaac a heart attack.

“You’re real,” Scott breathes out, his brain having a hard time catching up with the recent X-Files’ sort of events.

“Looks like it,” replies Isaac and shrugs, trying to go for cool and instead falling into cute. He looks away, golden locks falling on his face and making his whole demeanor more endearing.

Scott is starting to wonder why hasn’t he stood up to go to the other boy instead of trying to keep balancing his whole body in one of the three wheels, tempting death to come get him instead.

“Oh my god, you’re real, it worked,” he repeats.

And okay, maybe his brain just decided to reboot.

Isaac shrugs again, this time looking uncertain of himself, but when his bright blue eyes catches sight of Scott, he smiles brightly. And that’s the only invitation Scott needs before scrambling his way up his feet, letting the wheely chair fall with a noisy clatter and throwing himself at the other boy, crashing their mouths together.

It hurts a bit but that’s the trick.

Sugar, spice and everything nice, Isaac now is real.

And it can hurt to kiss him.

Which is marvellous, in a really bizarre way.

With one of his hands gripping tightly at the locks of hair on the back of Isaac’s neck while the other finds purchase on the boy’s shoulder, Scott sighs happily by how real this all feels. Same as the soft thin lips pressing over his with the same hunger and desperation or the hands grabbing the sides of his waist and fisting his shirt until it feels too tight.

He’s not sure when the teeth and their tongues stroking each other started.

Probably when Isaac nipped at his bottom lip with enough force to break a gasp out of Scott’s mouth. Or when Scott licked the seam of Isaac’s lips, because pressing their mouths together was nice but not enough.

He’s not exactly worried about knowing either.

Kissing like this is good.

Awesomely good.

Who needs answers? Not Scott, no sir.

Isaac smiles and tries to pull away, probably because he’s very human now and needs to bring back air to his lungs if he wants to stay that way for more than just a couple of minutes, but Scott whimpers in disagreement and follows, trying to bring their mouths together again.

It’s still not enough.

 

*

 

Things keep happening without Scott knowing why, but being totally on board with them.

Like the fact that he isn’t really sure how they both end up on his bed, completely naked.

Or how is it even possible that Isaac had clothes, to begin with. How does the whole ghostly clothes logistic works? Do ghostly clothes materialize? Do clothes die so ghosts can use them?

But since the last couple of months have been an overwhelming amount of nonsense sprinkled with delusion, Scott guesses the best thing to do is ignore it.

Isaac had clothes, now he does not and Scott is very pleased with that.

Focusing on the delicious weight of Isaac between his legs and the kisses travelling down his chest, shifting between bites and a stinging suction that would leave marks for him to show off later, Scott groans and writhes under the weight of the other boy.

“God, I wanted this so much,” Isaac’s voice is hoarse and low, igniting a shiver that goes from the crown of Scott’s head to his tailbone and makes him gasp loudly. “I’ve wanted to have you close, to just _touch_ you”.

Isaac’s hands drag themselves roughly down the sides of his body, as if trying to push past meat and bone and cradle his insides. Scott can’t do more than whimper, overpowered by how wrecked the other boy sounds. By how desperate his touch turns into.

He always thought about how much he wanted to have Isaac near. Never thought how would it have felt for the other boy.

There’s a bite on his V line, close to his groin, and Scott yelps. His leg spasm and kicks Isaac on the thigh, who just chuckles before lathing the abused spot to sooth it, making Scott’s leg quiver in a mixture of tickles and unbinded pleasure.

“Want to mark you up,” Isaac breathes out, “I want to make up for all the time I couldn’t”

A new bite follows the previous one, but this time Scott is waiting for it. A groan falls from his lips like liquid lust and his eyes roll to the back of his head, feeling stimulated to his very core. Isaac lets out a breathy laugh, either by the way Scott’s thigh quiver this time or out of delight by finally having this to enjoy. Scott doesn’t really care.

Not that he have the opportunity to do it, either.

Warmth engulfs him whole in the moment Isaac’s lips wrap around his shaft without a warning. Scott throws his head backwards with a silent gasp, eyes widening in surprise and soon darkening with arousal. His whole body arches, chest rising and hips tilting slightly backwards. Isaac makes an abortive move of pulling back and Scott quickly fists one hand in the golden locks of hair, keeping him in place.

Isaac snorts in amusement and the vibration around his cock makes Scott’s left leg spasm again, almost like a dog would. The blond boy hums, either in reprimand or in understanding, and presses a firm hand on Scott’s inner thigh. Fingertips digging in the tender meat, Isaac swallows further down until his nose brushes Scott’s pubes and his lower lip presses against the boy’s sack.

The second Isaac’s tongue plays with the underside of his tip, Scott’s brain disconnects and he can’t do anything else besides whimper and sob at the pleasure. There’s a tingle under his skin that he can’t nor want to stop and the warning that this isn’t really to last too long.

It seems like romantic movies have been lying about this too.

Also porn.

“Isaac,” he warns, the grip on the golden locks tightening until its owner breathes in harshly through his nose and pulls away from Scott’s cock.

Who still hasn’t let go of his hair, his traitorous body trying to bring Isaac back down to finish their business.

Isaac looks at him funny, with his head crooked to a side and amusement written all over his beautiful face, and Scott finally lets go of his claw like grip.

He doesn’t want a bald boyfriend, thank you.

After a couple of seconds where Isaac looks at him expectantly and terribly shy at the same time. Scott can’t have that. Scrambling up, he straddles Isaac with almost no finesse, barely avoiding to knee the blond boy into the very delicate and bruising parts of his body.

He doesn’t have time for the whole _he’s beauty, he’s grace, he’ll fuck you into outer space_.

Scott has had a goal for a long time.

And it’s Isaac.

“I want you,” he breathes over the thin pinkish lips and Isaac smiles, soft and happy and Scott doesn’t even have enough time to bask himself at the sight of it before lips are pressed over his.

There’s still hunger, but under layers upon layers of something that taste sweet in his tongue and makes his insides squirm in delight. Of something that warms and lights him up beyond understanding.

Scott’s arms find their way around Isaac’s neck, enjoying the support of broad shoulders and the closeness that not long before was just part of his dreams. His forehead firmly pressed against Isaac’s, just in the right angle so he can see the deep blue eyes staring back at him with a whirlwind of emotions simmering down his pupils.

There’s a hesitant touch, a drag of fingertips over his shaft that makes Scott’s breath hitch and thrust his hips unconsciously against Isaac’s. The hand disappears for a moment and reappears in his point of sight, right in front of Isaac’s mouth, who smiles almost teasingly and licks his digits one by one.

Scott’s shivers, goosebumps erupting all over his skin, and wonders idly if this is how he is going to die.

By his ex-ghost boyfriend teasing him.

A final tongue flat lick to his palm, that leaves threads of saliva joining it to Isaac’s mouth and pushes Scott into a trance that overpowers every other he ever had while being a horny teenager, and the touch over his cock returns. There’s no uncertainty this time, just the firm grip of long fingers wrapping around them both. Scott’s head slips from Isaac’s forehead and falls over his shoulder, gaping.

The blonde boy’s erection feels thick and heated over his own, that twitches in clear interest. His brown eyes focus in the scene of both cocks together, his own leaking copiously over them.

In other circumstance he’d feel embarrassed, maybe, about looking too eager.

Coming to the resolution that there’s nothing to be ashamed, Scott mewls.

He’s feeling very eager.

The _keep touching me like that or I might die_ kind of eagerness.

Isaac’s thumb strokes over his slit, smearing the pooling precum to both their tips and Scott’s eyes close in a failed attempt not feeling overcomed by how amazing it feels. A strangled noise bubbles up from his throat that not even himself can explain if it’s a plea or his best imitation of a dying walrus. But Isaac must talk walrus perfectly, because he doesn’t miss a beat and starts stroking them together.

And Oh.

My.

_God._

The blond boy is using the perfect pressure, the perfect speed and even that wrist twist that Scott saw once in a porn and couldn’t stop doing ever since. And he must be babbling about it too, because he boy under him breathes out a faint laugh that sounds .

“Yeah,” Isaac mutters over his jaw, nipping at it, “I’ve been watching”

Perhaps it shouldn’t be so arousing that Isaac ghostly pulled an Edward Cullen on him. Or the fact that if Isaac saw, the rest of the ghostly residency inside the apartment did too. But now, he doesn’t care. There’s a very warm hand moving just the way he likes and tipping him further towards his climax that’s taking his whole attention.

“More,” Scott whines, messily kissing at Isaac’s collarbone and up towards his jaw, “Please, please, more”.

The stroking turns rougher and quicker, Scott digging blunt nails over Isaac’s shoulders, who hisses and bucks his hips upwards in a very rewarding thrust that jabs the underside of Scott’s cock head. Both of them groan, but Scott gets to see Isaac’s head falling backwards and exposing his neck in the most tantalizing way he ever saw. With wide tendons and unblemished fair skin and the way his Adam’s apple bobbles.

Before he notices, his teeth are sinking into the skin, rough enough to leave a noticing bruise but not for breaking the skin. Isaac stills under him with a ragged breath and trembles before letting out a moan that would put into shame any porn star ever.

And that’s pretty much it.

Maybe is the stress of his life as a college student plus falling in love with a ghost.

Maybe is the amount of emotions assaulting his soft heart.

Most definitely is just Isaac, being there, panting over the joint of his neck and shoulder while his muscles tremble from exertion.

When Scott’s orgasm hit is with a blinding force. Black spots dancing in his sight and his lips now dragging over Isaac’s in his best attempt of kissing and just falling flat into breathing over the other boy’s mouth in large and loud pants. Thick creamy white ropes of cum spurting upwards and painting both their groins and lower abs in the most messy way possible.  

And happiness.

So much happiness that he can barely contain it inside his body.

Scott barely registers Isaac coming too before he goes with a bang, blacking out from pleasure.

 

*

 

Scott’s ashamed to admit that he falls asleep.

And by the uncomfortable feeling crust at the side of his mouth, he even drools.

 

*

 

When he wakes up, the first thing he notices is that the room is fairly more dark and that the thing that looks like summoning a spectre of light is just his computer screen on. He’s laying on his side facing the devilish device and squinting his eyes at it as if that would be the solution to not get them burned to ashes by the artificial light. Stiles must have been calling him to know what happened with Isaac and rant---

 _Isaac_.

One of his hands shoot backwards almost on its own, patting the bed frantically as if the blond boy would appear from in between the sheets if he slapped the right pattern over it.

He does not.

Scott still turns to look at the very obvious empty spot at his side. Maybe Isaac is hanging over the edge of the mattress like a bat or sleeping on the floor. Maybe he kept some of his ghost powers and it’s floating.

But no.

Scott can feel tears start to sting at the corners of his eyes.

Did he dreamed all that? Was it an hallucination due to a concussion by falling from the wheely chair? Did perhaps Isaac vanished once more into his ghostly form and that was just a very nice goodbye before he parted ways to heaven and where is he supposed to find a pottery set?

Maybe Stiles is right and he really needs to stop watching romantics movies after all.

Before he can properly fall into one of his PPA - _Puppy Panic Attack_ as Stiles calls them, where Scott just whines and paces from one side to the other of his room -, there’s a distinctive sound of a toilet being flushed, the bathroom door throwing the usual bitch tantrum to open and soft steps echoing over the hardwood floor towards his room.

Scott freezes and his gaze locks on the door, expectant.

Isaac stops on his tracks when he reaches the room, clearly noticing the shift of energy.

Or maybe the very big and very powerful puppy eyes that Scott is throwing at him, with a trembling pout included.

“I thought you were a ghost again! And that I’d have to tell Stiles that I imagined you jerking me off! And Stiles would have screamed at me!”

A soft snort echoes through the room and Scott finds himself relaxing and going full puppy mode, the one that Stiles mocks him so much. Soft loving eyes, warm crooked smile, even the small dimple on his side.

“Don’t worry,” Isaac mutters from the bedroom door, smiling softly at Scott before padding his way back to bed, “I’m still very real. You’ll get tired of seeing me around”

Long limbs crawl back into bed and Scott pulls him closer to his chest in a soft embrace that he hopes makes Isaac forget the whole _I freaked out while you were peeing_. Isaac hums and wraps his arms around Scott’s middle, tucking his face on his neck.

There’s a smile pressing at the joint of neck and shoulder that leaves it on a 50/50 where the blond boy laughing at him or finding it completely endearing.

Or both. He can always aim for both.

“Good,” Scott mumbles against the golden locks of Isaac’s crown, nuzzling into it and kissing the boy’s temple with ease. One of his hands start to rake up and down Isaac’s back, making the blond boy sigh in delight and melt even further over Scott’s chest. “Because sexting over the bathroom mirror doesn’t really sound practical”

In a burst, Isaac’s laugh fills the gaps of real life and this whole madness perfectly.

It’s the closest thing to bliss Scott could ever find.

 

*

 

“So, about the other ghosts watching us--”

“Would you really want to know?,” Isaac looks pointedly at Scott, arching a brow questioningly.

Silence fills the air for a couple of seconds.

“No,” Scott replies, “Not really, no”

He can perfectly ignore it if it means that he gets to live with some peace of mind.

 

*

 

Next morning, Scott finds a smiley face with many little hearts surrounding it and a little Manon signing in the corner of the bathroom mirror.

A goofy wide smile spreads on his lips almost instantly, his heart swelling in warmth at the adorably nice message.

He also tries really hard to ignore the nagging voice at the back of his mind reminding him that that could be an alternative way to score out his sexual performance from last night.

 

*

 

Now he wants to know what would have been his score.

 

*

 

For someone who asked about all the details, Stiles hangs up the video call as soon as Scott talks about his concern of ghost having clothes.

 

*

 

Isaac slams a pillow on his face instead.

Followed by a kiss, so it's okay.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> You get more of my nonsense ranting.  
> I'm so not sorry.
> 
>  
> 
> The song is **Unhaunted** by **John Mark McMillan**
> 
>  
> 
> The rules about having a spectrophilia sesion were taken from a BuzzFeed article.  
> Beware, here the link  
> https://www.buzzfeed.com/katieheaney/we-tried-to-have-sex-with-ghosts-and-heres-what-happened?utm_term=.kd0oPZeaOE#.yozvPgEzOn


End file.
